Once
inside the White House dreary, Drone Man pondered, worried, weary
Upon
how his ISIS proxies were falling by the score –
Watching
frontlines creeping, nearly weeping
Suddenly
there came a beeping
As an
SUV gently beeping, beeping at the Oval door.
“ ‘Tis
some SUV,” Drone Man said, “beeping at my Office door
Only
that and nothing more.”
Oh,
Drone Man well remembers, how the glowing embers
Of
burning Libyan cities into the sky did soar;
Eagerly
he’d watched the TV – while he’d scanned the CV –
Of
the puppet he’d meant to install when Tripoli was washed in gore
For
the puppet who’d give him the oil of Libya like tribute at the door
A
pliant puppet slave forevermore.
But more
bombing, fighting, blasting, the puppets now beyond trusting
Grilled
him, filled him with anger seldom felt before;
So
that then he’d sat furious, but still not uncurious
If
the same formula would work if tried over once more.
“I’ll
use it in Syria, try it over once more
And
capture the country from the desert to the shore.”
Presently
he’d had inspiration, and filled up with new passion
“I’ll
get me some cannibals,” he’d said, “and headhunters galore.
“I’ll
fund them and I’ll train them, and on Syria I’ll rain them
And
they’ll spread jihad poison as by spore.
They’ll
overthrow Assad – ” and he’d raised his voice in a roar
“I’ll
own his country, forevermore.”
Deep
into jihad forums peering, filled with hatred seething, searing
Soon
he’d found his cannibal headhunters, people he could love, adore
He
gave them machine guns, he gave them cream buns
He
filled their pockets with drugs and dollars, and waved them through his door.
“We’re
Exceptional, Indispensable, Exalted, and therefore
History
and facts are things to ignore.”
And then
in Warshington sitting, his teeth all furiously gritting
He’d
read of his jihad failing in the desert, failing by the ocean shore,
“Surely
there’s something I can do, perhaps stage a gas attack or two
And bomb
Syria to scrap, like in Libya I’d done before
Yes,
like in Libya I’d done to Gaddafi before,
Until
the wind finds ruins, and nothing more.”
Open
wide he’d thrown his mouth, and issued orders, north and south
Of a
campaign to be launched with bombers, missiles, shells and more
“First
I’m going to destroy Syria, and then I’ll pause to sing an aria
Of my
plans for Iran, Russia before the blood’s dry on the floor
Of
how I’ll destroy China, Russia, before the blood’s dry on the floor
I’ll
own this planet, to the core.”
But
to his anger and surprise, nobody this time swallowed the lies
It
seemed his war he wouldn’t have, his orders they’d all ignore
As
he’d sat in his Office raving, for peace they had a sudden craving
It
seemed, or at least his lies were too extempore.
“I’ll
think a moment, other possibilities I’ll explore
And over
the planet my drones will soar.”
Then
suddenly he’d thought of ISIS, born of that other crisis
His
friends and mentors Bush and Clinton had wreaked in Iraq before.
“That
is the very thing, that will soon make me a king
I’ll
throw them at Assad until he can take no more.
And
the wind shall howl in the ruins of the desert, and the shore
There
will be ruins, and nothing more.”
Through
the wide-opened Turkish gate, a flood in swift-rising spate
ISIS
struck like a tornado at the squabbling cannibals that had gone before
Oh
it shattered and it killed, as the headhunters’ own heads spilled
Like
skittles off their shoulders and rolled on the desert floor.
Until
ISIS’ black flag flapped in the air by the score
As
far as the eye could reach, and even more.
But
then the counter-attack came, and ISIS soon lost the game
Forced
back in Syria it fled to Iraq, back the tide its remnants bore
And
Drone Man in his Office mourned, as his pets fast lost ground
To
those he’d vowed to oust, and defeat stared at him once more.
“What
can I do now?” And he looked up at the door
Where
something beeped, just once more.
The
door he threw open, whereupon like fingers groping
Uncertain
and placating, something drove out on to the floor.
Its
armour was set in planes and angles, weapons hung on it like bangles
On
the wrists of an aging hippie clinging on to the days of yore.
“Why,
‘tis a Humvee, like a million I’ve seen before
Just
a Humvee, and nothing more.”
Into
the Oval the Humvee lumbered, and Drone Man slowly clambered
Into
its turret and sat, listening to the engine’s roar.
For
a while nothing he uttered, not even a syllable he muttered
Wondering
why it had come in through his White House door –
While
the machine sat in the middle of the Office floor
Engine
rumbling and horn beeping, out there on the Office floor.
In
the turret he sat behind the gun, and thought of all the fun
He
could have firing it at Assad’s face, and at Putin’s even more
When
suddenly in a twinkling, from nowhere he had an inkling
Of
an idea that came to him, seeping in through every pore,
Like
a black flag flying over an armoured door
Like
a Humvee with an ISIS flag flying above its armoured door.
The
machine gun like a wasp’s avenging stinger, or even more a pointing finger
Pointed
him in a new direction he ought to explore –
Set
him to some head-scratching, and a new plot a-hatching
A
plot that would bring victory in his grasp once more.
And
he thought, “No wonder my plans all failed before
I
never had such a good one as this before.”
“ISIS
has men,” said he, “but weapons and mobility
Are
things that it must have for its wings to soar
And
you, my Humvee, have just shown me
How
I can get them these in ways the world will ignore.
How
many Humvees does ISIS need? Your advice I implore.”
Quoth
the Humvee: “A hundred score.”
So
Drone Man sat thinking, and presently he started blinking
As
new ideas came where old ones had gone before.
“Not
just mobility,” he thought sadly, “ISIS needs also badly
Armour
and much more than included in my plot du jour.
Where
I can find a mine full of inspiration’s mystic ore?”
Quoth
the Humvee: “The Pentagon’s store!”
Drone
Man said “Now my way I clearly see, the way I’ll make free
With
regulations that tie me down, and send weapons once more.
Tanks,
artillery, you name it, I know now how I’ll send it
In
ways that ISIS will get them, and win through once more
To
the victory I promised them, that to them I swore.”
Quoth
the Humvee: “You won’t bore.”
Drone
Man stroked the Humvee’s top, thought happily of the crop
Of headless
bodies in numbers never seen heretofore –
“I’ll
arm the Iraqi, the army that I know perfectly
Will
cut and run and leave the weapons for ISIS, like they’ve done before.
How
do you like my plan? Tell me, I implore.”
Quoth
the Humvee: “J’adore!”
“Then
when ISIS captures it all, and it seems Iraq will fall
I
can send troops and planes and even more weapons than I’ve done before
To
destroy the tanks and Humvees, that ISIS will take when the army flees
I’ll
send missiles that ISIS can capture in turn, to arm its armoured corps.
Is’t
all right so far, or should I seek a system restore?”
Quoth
the Humvee: “I assure!”
“Though
I sometimes wonder, if I’m making a blunder
In
assuming things will go as simply as I’m planning for.
How
many hours before the weapons fall to ISIS? A year or more?
I
can’t wait if it takes ISIS to capture the weapons a year or more.
How
many hours? I’m afraid you’ll say a year or more.”
Quoth
the Humvee: “Twenty four!”
While I’ve been waiting for a while – at least four years – for some topic I
could write a parody of Poe’s The Raven to, I scarcely expected
that the Imperialist States of Amerikastan’s fairly transparent attempt to arm
its ISIS proxies would provide the
inspiration. Still, the muse strikes in unexpected ways – rather like one of
Obama’s Hellfire missiles.
What inspired this parody was the news that ISIS captured a billion dollars’
worth of Humvees alone in Mosul (again alone), and more subsequently in Ramadi, and that isn’t
including all the artillery and Abrams tanks and so on that Amerikastan sent to
its famous New Iraqi Army. And the solution after ISIS captured all that? To
send even more Humvees, tanks and artillery to this same New Iraqi Army. As well as missiles to destroy the Humvees and tanks it already sent. I wonder what it will send when (when, damn it, not if) ISIS captures those missiles.
Damn it, I wish someone would give me a Humvee. After all I’m not going to
turn it into a car bomb or machine gun anyone from it, and I probably deserve
it more than some jihadi with nothing in his skull but mangled and
misinterpreted material from the Koran.
If I was the Caliph Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi, I’d
be composing a letter of effusive thanks to Obama right now.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2015
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
